


Hope

by ItWasIDio



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Blood, Death, Gen, Hope, Survivor Guilt, etc. - Freeform, naturally, no names are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItWasIDio/pseuds/ItWasIDio
Summary: A retelling of Marius' experiences in honor of Barricade Day. Starts when he arrives on the barricade and entirely book-based.





	Hope

He likes to think that his dad would be proud of him, but past experience has told him otherwise. When you betray the trust of someone, whether it be through opinions, love, or lies, you aren’t often forgiven. You aren’t often loved, as he knows. If his grandfather would be here right now, he feels like there’d be something akin to a fight, the familiar screaming from his childhood coming back to haunt him. He’s changed three times for this day, and now he only has to wait.

What is he waiting for, anyways? All his friends to die? He himself to die? The barricade to rise, to fall, to do nothing at all? He likes to think that all of these are what he’s waiting for. He’s not even worried about what his dad will say to him, only about how long it is until they meet.

He waltzes into the fighting like he owns the place, shooting at enemies to protect his friends. They notice. He doesn’t. He threatens the enemies and protects the barricade, clearing it through threats and fire that he doesn’t remember thinking or getting. He just knows that he has to do this. For his father, grandfather, friends, love, and self.

He knows more so than feels that he’s been shot. Blood drips from various wounds upon his body. A friend who once scolded him for his naive beliefs is still there to patch him up. He thanks the friend for more than one thing. The friend seems to understand.

He’s scared, no matter how he puts it. There’s a familiar officer tied up, and he’s going to be shot. The man with the uniforms and exquisite shooting abilities asks to shoot the officer. The leader agrees readily, and soon a gunshot is heard. Night hasn’t even hit yet.

He’s never been quite this scared, not when his grandfather chased him with a cane until he cried, not when he discovered that his life was just a foundation of lies, not when he learned that his love was moving away and he’d never be able to follow. No, he’s only scared once he realises that his dad won’t be proud, his friends will all die, and he’ll be useless to stop it. 

He asks, just to be sure. There’s still hope clinging to his mind no matter how he looks at it. He’s always been like that, so easily swayed and eternally separated from cruel realities. The hope gets crushed with the answer. The officer who tried to help him once is dead. 

The poet is dead, the one with undying passion and a brilliant smile. He wants to miss him, but he doesn't have as much of a right as everyone else. He’s the latecomer, always. 

The man with the books is dead, the one who always helped him through hard times, found him work, taught him three languages while only intending two. English, German, and Hope. Hope is a language he can’t help but speak as he watches his few remaining friends dwindle down in size until none remain but the foundation. He cries a bit more than he’s willing to admit as the flag is raised.

He can’t even remember who died when, only that he’s going to die. He would’ve been shot had a hand not blocked the gun. Someone had saved him, someone who he’d love but never truly love, someone who knew this and was still so willing to die. He’s not even sure if she expected to die, the bullet coming out of her back from her hand seems as unlikely as it is tragic. Still, she dies in his arms, heart stopping with the three words now burned into his soul. He leaves her with a kiss, knowing that he’ll probably die anyways and she just did for nothing.

He knows that the child’s been shot, that someone who’s only lived about half his life is dead. Dead as a doornail, dead as a war hero, dead as dead. He’s put with the man with the books, though he lost all his books and his ability to read them. The first part lost through debt, the second through death. The child is dead, his sister is dead, too. He wonders about the rest of the family, if they notice, if they care. He hopes that someone misses them, knows that he won’t have time to mourn. He’ll be dead by dawn, he’s sure of it.

More people die, it’s a blur of death. He can’t tell who’s dead and who’s just dying. Later, when the bodies are cleared away, that distinction won’t be made by the soldiers, either. He thinks he sees someone familiar go down, he thinks he’s crying. He isn’t sure who he shoots, or who shoots him. He’s only sure that he’s shot. He braces himself to meet his father along with his Father and then hands grab him.

He’s a prisoner now, he’s sure of it. He’s a prisoner, like all of his friends. Prisoners of death, prisoners of hope, prisoners of belief. Only, he thinks himself a prisoner outside of the abstract. He isn’t sure about what’s happening as a foul smell and even fouler feeling take over him. He’s carried off by someone, he isn’t sure who, until they reach light. He marks this man, whoever he is, down as a hero. They’re both free now.

Soon, he’s returned to his grandfather, and discovers that he’s loved. He wonders if his father feels the same, knowing that he was once loved by that man even when he hated him, mocked him, didn’t know or think any better, didn’t feel any better when the truth was discovered. He can’t believe that he lived, can’t believe that he’s the only one. The streets were stained red with the blood of a failed revolution, so it’ll never be known as revolution.

He goes on to live a happy life, discovering that the man he once idolized was only full of lies, discovering that the man he once scorned saved his life, discovering that he could still fall in love, discovering that he is loved. He goes on to live, and he wonders if his friends are proud. He wonders if his father still loves him. He wonders how long it’ll last.

When his savior dies, he has everything he needs. He has love, a wife, friends, money, a title, and, above all, Hope. He cries as the man who he forced himself into the life of dies, smiling at something only dead eyes can see as he confesses everything. He feels like he’s intruding but stays nonetheless. He always was the latecomer, the outsider, the intruder. He stills stays.

He cries with his love, not feeling her same anguish but still feeling enough. He’s reminded of his friends and cries some more. He eventually runs out of tears and tries to avoid tragedy after that. He can’t cry anymore. He doesn’t want to, now.

He can’t help but to blame himself, sometimes. He killed the girl who loved him, he killed the man who saved him, he killed the father who cared about him. He knows it isn’t all true, but still cries with his lack of tears. 

He speaks four different languages and still can’t describe his misery. Hope, the fourth language, encourages him to still try.

Ils me manquent.

Ich vermisse sie.

I miss them.


End file.
